The Right Words
by GoggleBox
Summary: John confides his feelings for Sherlock in his blog, but the plot thickens when he realizes that his blog isn't as personal as he thought. JohnLock. Fluffy, but not racey.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I must say, this fanfiction stuff is really addicting. I've found that I've been writing more and more in the last few weeks. This is my first "published" story, so I might need some advice on some bits. ^^"**

**Oh, and I don't own Sherlock, yadda yadda yadda, it's property of someone from the magical world of Britain.**

My eyes darted back up and I was surprised to see that his were alert, waiting for mine. I felt slightly flustered. So we were staring now. This was new.

I cleared my throat and returned my attention to the illuminated screen in front of me. When he didn't return to his paper, I glanced back at him, eyebrows up, silently inquiring his behavior.

He slowly angled his head away from me before allowing his eyes to follow it, as though gathering every last detail of my expression before looking away. "London can be such a peaceful place," he said, rising and slowly carrying himself to the window. "It really is such a shame."

I gave my eyes one last roll before returning to my typing. I felt like I needed to write about our new relationship quirks. My psychiatrist told me to write about everything and everything that happened, and here was something, black and white, clear as crystal, that could change my life. And it seemed that, the more I waited, the more greyscale and tarnished it became.

I sucked in a breath and rested my hand on the keyboard, lightly drumming my fingers on the keys. It would be too easy to press the right keys and press the "publish" button, but even easier to press all the wrong ones. The hardest option was the simplest: don't say anything. It almost felt like a lie to keep it from everyone, to hide the truth behind the dark door with the gold plates reading "221B". It wasn't a lie at all, and I knew it, but my mind kept making me feel like a liar. I had a growing following of people who read my blog, and news could spread as fast, or even faster, than people wanted it to. This could be a revelation, or it could turn into the biggest mess I'd ever dragged Sherlock into.

I had felt something the moment I had met Sherlock, but I wasn't sure that it was the same feeling as the one I felt now. This was a soft, yet hungry feeling, but I didn't want to call it love; it probably wasn't that big yet. Probably.

Nevertheless, I felt something, and I knew that he felt something like it, too. Perhaps it was muddled by his intellect, perhaps he chose to ignore it, or perhaps he didn't even know he was feeling it. This blog could change all that. He could realize what he was constantly subconsciously feeling. I could also hurt him beyond repair. Either way, things were definitely going to change in our flat.  
So, with the last damn piece of dignity I could manage, I added six final words to the post and clicked "publish."

I closed my laptop, heaved a sigh, and blinked a few times to straighten my head. It didn't take long for my gaze to rise back to Sherlock, who was still contemplating by the window. His brows were furrowed with concentration and his eyes were focused on a building close to the street. The rising sun illuminated his face, emphasizing his cheekbones even more than usual. To most, he seemed to be an inhuman machine, trundling about just to get a thrill. But I knew different. He cared so much more than he revealed. He could destroy the city with no outside assistance, but he chose not to. He chose to be on the good side. The side of the angels.

I stepped to his side and my gaze flickered between him and the early streets of London. "You should eat something," I stated. "You don't even have a case and you're starving yourself."

He broke his gaze away from the street immediately. "I'm fine," he grumbled before stalking away to the kitchen table with a swish of his robe. He put his hands on the table and hung his head. His hands slowly turned into claws and he spun around, ruffling his hair in anger. Sherlock was really upset. He didn't usually get this flustered over boredom; there had to be something else. He knew something or saw something or was feeling somethi-

I froze. He was feeling something. I suppose we both were, but was it the same? I couldn't ask, but I had an idea that could help me find out.

I walked over to Sherlock, turned him towards me, and hugged him.

I could feel him stiffen up, wonder what had brought this out of me. After a moment, he began to gradually melt into my embrace. I felt him slowly raise his arms and he wrapped them around me. He felt warmer than I thought, and it felt right to feel it. I couldn't help but smile. I had hugged Sherlock, but he had also hugged me.

We stood like that for a while, exchanging silent words of comfort through our embrace. Our hug was cut short by a knock at our door. We both unwrapped each other and cleared our throats. I straightened my jacket before crossing over to the door and swinging it open. "Mrs. Hudson, hello," I greeted the landlady. She gave a smile. "Yes, hello, dear. I was just about to pop out for some biscuits and I was wondering if you wanted something."

"No, thank you, I-" I started, but Sherlock interrupted. "Milk, please. We need milk."

She nodded and turned. "Alright, dears, I'll be back in a bit."

I turned to Sherlock. "We don't need milk! We have a full jug in the fridge!"

"Correction," he announced. "We have a milk jug in the fridge, but no milk."

I looked at my creamed coffee in disgust. Any minute, I'd start vomiting or sporting little green dots.

I crossed back over to Sherlock. "Do you need any more clients? We've got an extended list waiting for a reply."

"No, I-" He paused before replying slower than before. "No, I won't be needing a client."

"Well, you're not going to sit around all day."

"I have no intention of doing so."

I lifted my laptop from my lap onto the table. "Well, what are you going to do?"

He crossed over the window once more and examined the shops below. "I'm going out."

I hesitated to ask. "With?"

He turned and smiled. "You, of course."

"Well, this is different."

We were walking along Baker Street, peering in the windows of cafes and stores. The throngs of citizens were starting to grow and taxis scuttled around, filling the air with the familiar sound of London.

"What's different?" Sherlock asked.

"Never walked down the street with…never mind."

We strode side by side, not uncomfortably close, but close enough to bump hands once in a while. I couldn't help but notice that Sherlock had shortened his strides to allow me to keep up with him. I felt redness start to creep into my face and I lowered my gaze. We walked in uneventful silence for a while before we bumped hands again. I couldn't help myself and I felt like I needed to do it: I grabbed his hand.

I used just the tips of my fingers so he wouldn't think that I was forcing him into something he didn't like. After a few moments with no visible reaction, I began to slide my hand farther into his. Still no reaction. We were really holding hands now. It didn't feel as wrong as it sounded in my head. I looked at his face to see if he was upset or afraid. I expected to see a grimace or, at the very least, his usual blank face, but was unprepared for his expression.

Sherlock was crying.

**WAT! Things are happening! Sherlock's awesome! I ship JohnLock! Oh mah gerd.**

**I've got more to this fanfiction that I'll be adding soon, so don't fret. :3**

**Thanks for your feedback. Let me know what you think! Laters. **

**(^.^) GoggleBox**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ohai! This is a bit of a shorter chapter, but I'm rather fond of this one because…well…you'll see. JohnLock ahead, captain!**

**Sherlock belongs to some lovely people, but not to me.**

**.:.**

I looked ahead of us, trying not to attract attention to him. It would kill Sherlock to know that people had seen him crying. I squeezed his hand and murmured "Come on." He nodded and followed me.

I pulled him into an alley and led him behind a dumpster. "Sherlock, I didn't mean to make you so upset. I couldn't help it-"

He shook his head, cutting me off. He opened his mouth, but closed it and looked down.

I grabbed his other hand and held them both to my chest. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Tears still rolled down his face. I dropped a hand and wiped them away with my sweater sleeve. "I'm here, Sherlock. What's wrong?"

He took in one long, shuddering breath before talking. His voice quivered like I had never heard it before. "You, John. I've never had someone like you before."

My brows furrowed with concern. "Sherlock, you don't-"

"No, I need to tell you."

I swallowed and he wiped his face. After a few more shaky breaths, he continued.

"When I first saw you, John, I read you like a book, and you were still amazed. People usually deny it all or start to hide themselves from me to irritate me. You didn't. You're still here, and you never leave my side. And, John, I…"

He stopped and looked away, his eyes still wet. My eyes were brimming, but I kept the tears in. "Sherlock," I whispered, just loud enough to hear.

"I love you, John."

The words hit me and stopped my heart. I blinked a few times and tried to breathe. He…he said that…Sherlock…

I tried to steady myself. This was pathetic. I could last for months in Afghanistan looking at people split in half by the war, but I couldn't stand up straight when someone said "I love y-"

Sherlock brought me back into the world with a whisper of my name. "John! Are you alright?" Now he was concerned about me.

I coughed and adjusted my stance to help me balance. "Sherlock, I'm fine. I just…didn't expect that."

When I said those words, Sherlock's expression made it look like I had ripped his whole world apart.

"No, no, Sherlock, no! I just never thought that…you would…I mean…"

I struggled for words to say. I couldn't say that I never knew; that would be a blatant lie. I couldn't say that I knew it all along; that would be a blunt truth.

My mind raced to put together a sentence, and before I could think about it too much, I said it.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

For a moment, nothing moved.

My words had acted as a "pause" button for the two of us. We both stood there, not breathing, just looking. I still held Sherlock's hand, and I couldn't decide whether to grab his other one or let go of the one I held. I slowly reached down and took his other hand and held it next to the other. "I love you, Sherlock," I repeated. Maybe I said it to reassure him, or maybe I was trying to convince myself that the words were true. Even after I said it, the words continued to bounce around in my head. I love you, I love you, I love…

My eyes were dry now, and his were brimming, but weren't spilling over anymore. I wanted to embrace him again, to feel the beautiful, euphoric feeling I had felt just an hour or two before. He was a deep man, and a troubled one at that, but he was the most wonderful man I had ever met. He had saved me so many times, even when he thought that he was the one who needed saving. He had rescued me on numerous occasions from two of the most vile forces known to man: boredom and death. He was brilliant, he was fantastic, and I wanted him to be mine.

So I stood up as tall as I could, caught his eye, and did what I never thought that I'd ever see anyone, much less myself, do.

I kissed Sherlock Holmes.

I couldn't tell if be was happy or upset at this venture, but I could feel mild surprise. He wasn't fully surprised, which almost scared me; had he been expecting this? Had he been planning this?

I tried to ignore the slight feeling of uncertainty and focused instead on the sensations. I couldn't imagine the feelings that were ricocheting around in that head of his.

It wasn't a particularly long kiss, just long enough to reassure Sherlock. I pulled back at looked him straight in the eyes. "It's okay, Sherlock."

He drew in a deep breath and nodded, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his jacket. I gave him a nod in return and smiled. A slow smile spread across his face and he laughed for a moment before taking another deep breath. "I wouldn't expect you to share this with anyone," he said.

I stroked his hand with my thumb. "My lips are sealed."

He gave a small one-sided smile. I felt my heart flutter for a moment before turning and walking out of the alley, one hand still holding Sherlock's.

**.:.**

**Thanks again for reading and any feedback you give is awesome. Until next time, lovely people!**

**(^.^) GoggleBox**


	3. Chapter 3

**Oh. My. Goodness. Thank you all so much for watching my story and reading it! I didn't expect this much attention at all. Thank you all. If you have a few extra moments, please leave a review. You have no idea how happy that'd make me.**

**Okay, I'm done talking now. :P Enjoy!**

**.:.**

The next day began ordinarily enough. I had my morning tea, Sherlock looked at severed ears. I read the paper, Sherlock made an ear explode. I ate some toast with jam, Sherlock scraped bits of ear off of the table. He soon abandoned his tedious extremity removal project and dashed out the door, going off to a scene that he said Lestrade had described as "unbelievable, shocking, and unnaturally personal."

Alone, as usual, I climbed in front of my laptop and opened my blog, stifling a yawn. It took a few seconds to resister the unnatural site. It was different today, in a gut-wrenching, a-little-not-good way.

The hit counter had been reset yesterday afternoon.

Now, less than twenty-four hours later, it read "9,486."

I couldn't help but gasp. I had known that my blog was popular, but almost ten thousand hits in a few hours? Why would that be?

My breath caught. I slowly scrolled down to my post published the previous day. Those last six words. Those last six damn words. They had been written the previous day, but they went against our agreement to keep our relationship a secret.

"I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes."

All I could do was stare at the screen, my pulse accelerating. How could I have been so stupid? This wasn't a personal blog! Why had I said that on a public website? Even some people from Scotland Yard read it.

My eyes widened. An unusually personal case. Oh, God. Jesus, no. I needed to call Sherlock. Donovan and Anderson-

The door slammed. I jumped. Sherlock was home.

I turned to him and started talking right away, my words tumbling over each other and getting tangled in my mouth. I tried explaining the blog, but all that came out of my mouth were random syllables of words I couldn't say.

I babbled and stammered, but all I knew saw were the eyes. His eyes. Those beautiful pools of grey had turned into sheets of bedrock, boring into me, displaying his anger and his hurt all at the same time.

When I stopped trying to talk, there was a beat of silence between us. He looked deep into me before talking, slowly and deliberately, as though he was forcing each word through his teeth.

"My reputation at Scotland Yard is ruined. Every person who ever met me thinks that I'm turning soft. Do you know how many times I was teased in the few minutes that I was there?"

I sat, afraid to answer.

The silence returned. Pain was on the edge of his voice the next time he spoke.

"I'm going to my room," he said, striding off to his destination. He stopped in the doorway. "And I don't expect company."

He left the room with an angry swish of his coat and left me there, broken in the chair.

**.:.**

Over the next week, I tried and failed to get Sherlock out of his room dozens of times. I tried tempting him with crimes, food, and experiments. I tried forcing him. I even tried reverse psychology. He just lay there under a single blanket, his back to the door. Whenever I tried to step in, he held up a hand, signaling for me to stop. Once, when I ignored his hand, he pulled a gun from under his pillow and turned toward me, the gun aimed at my chest, his face hard and unforgiving.

At night, I heard him whispering. He wasn't praying, but he was pleading. He played over lines of dialogue like he was reciting poetry.

"You're an idiot...but you're my idiot..don't go...I'm alone...John...help..."

Those few days seemed like millennia. Sherlock refused to leave his room for anything. Eventually, he allowed me to bring in trays of food and remove them, untouched, a few hours later.

Finally, after seven days of nonstop worry, I retrieved his tray and stood in the doorway. He hadn't changed his clothes in days and he was looking even paler than usual. That's it. That's enough. This is ridiculous. He was going to starve to death if he didn't start eating.

I walked to his bed and sat on the edge. "Sherlock." No response. "Sherlock." I was starting to get upset. I was about to shout, but I swallowed and tried to calm myself. Yelling would just separate us even more. If I didn't watch myself, Sherlock would slip away from me. I couldn't bear to lose him.

I leaned over him and tried to read his face. His eyes were closed and his eyebrows were furrowed. He was still angry. I was beyond worried and he was beyond upset. My mouth turned up a little. The both of us were so stubborn.

I leaned further over and kissed him on the cheek. His eyes opened. "I'm sorry," I said. I walked out of the room, but not before seeing him turn around to watch me go.

**.:.**

**Sherlock! Why you so stubborn! Just forgive him already! Hmmph.**

**Thanks again for reading and watching! Until next time!**

**(^.^) GoggleBox**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you all so so very much for reviewing and watching this fic! You have no idea how much it means to me to have people giving such positive feedback. :)**

**A couple people pointed out that the Yarders don't really have much to go on for teasing Sherlock. I tried to cover that in this chapter a little bit to clear everything up.**

**Okay, I'm done now. :P Enjoy!**

After a fitful sleep, I woke to find a note on my nightstand. "Out. -SH".

I ripped the covers off my bed and raced to Sherlock's room. His bed was neatly made and his dirty clothes were folded at the end of his bed for cleaning. I sunk against the frame of the door, relieved. This was progress. He still wasn't talking to me, but it was progress nevertheless.

As I entered the living room, the more I looked, the more back-to-normal things looked. The newspaper had been retrieved and rifled through, there were several slices missing from the loaf of bread, and the coffee table had a fresh footprint on it. The newspaper, I noticed, had a picture of the both of us on the front, but I didn't stop to read the article. It would just aggravate me again.

I sighed, prepared some tea, retrieved my laptop, and sat in my chair, waiting for my friend to return.

**.:.**

Around noon, I heard the door downstairs open and shut. There was the soft tone of Mrs. Hudson, followed by the rich tone of my flatmate. I found myself smiling. It was nice to have him talking again, even if not to me.

Our door opened and closed and Sherlock stood there, looking at me. "Why are you smiling?" he asked.

I hurriedly removed the grin and cleared my throat, returning my attention to my laptop. He looked at me a second more before walking to the couch and tipping over onto his back.

"Why didn't you think?" he asked.

I stopped typing but didn't look up. "I was afraid," I said.

"Of me?" he asked.

I closed my eyes. "Yeah. A bit." I paused. "But I think I was mostly afraid of myself. I was confused and I didn't know what to do next."

"So you told the whole world?"

"It's my therapy blog! What am I supposed to put on there?"

He glared at me. "The internet's not personal."

"Well, neither are relationships."

He pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling. He paused, thinking. "Ours is."

I tried to think of a comeback. This was my fault, I knew that. But I didn't know how to make it up to him. Apologies were meaningless to him. I could only think of one thing.

I stood. Sherlock looked over to me with a mix of confusion and annoyance. "Where are you going?"

"Out," said I.

"Why?"

I looked over. "I've got a date."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I thought you two broke up last month."

"Not with a girl, you git."

I could see the words turn the wheels in his mind even faster. His face seemed to soften a bit. I saw a ghost of a smile flicker over his features. "Angelo's?"

I smiled back. "Why not?"

**.:.**

We sat in a window seat, the same one, in fact, that we had sat in the day we had met. Angelo hesitantly walked to our table with a candle, but he seemed to remember our earlier dinner and set it on a table next to us. We ordered our meals, two plates of spaghetti, and sat in silence.

Sherlock reached over and grabbed the candle. I pretended not to notice and looked out the window, even though the street was nothing new or interesting. Sherlock experimentally placed the candle on the corner of our table. I held back a smile. I owed Sherlock a lot for breaking a promise. He was really trying to be romantic, I could tell, and he deserved to give it a go.

We slowly struck up a conversation and I found myself heartily chatting by the time the food arrived. For my first ever date with a man, I was really enjoying myself.

I watched Sherlock. He eyed his plate curiously. After a moment, he seemed to make up his mind about something and stabbed his plate, but his fork slid between the noodles. He frowned and tried again, only to get the same result. Brow furrowed, he took a spoon and tried scooping the food up, but succeded only in getting a small helping of sauce. I couldn't help but smile.

Sherlock scowled, took his fork, and, purely from frustration, shoveled a mass of noodles into his mouth. He finally noticed my concealed laughter and looked up at me. Spaghetti hung out of his mouth, sauce was spread all around his mouth like he was a year old, and his eyes were still furrowed in anger.

I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing.

Sherlock looked at me a moment more before biting off his noodles and swallowing. He was obviously embarrassed, and the piercing glare he sent me only fueled my laughter. After a few seconds of my giggling, he smiled, and within a minute, he was laughing, too.

The next day, we ventured to our next case. Lestrade had continued to send texts regarding current cases, so we knew where to go. We drove out to a barn, at which a man had been stabbed with a pitchfork. The murderer had escaped, but had left behind a monocle and a pipe. I saw the light return to Sherlock's eyes as he examined the scene and collected data. He seemed more relaxed here, out doing what he loved.

The first to comment on the two of us was Donovan.

"Looks like you've found one of your kind, Freak."

Sherlock didn't bother to look up. "I've been out for a week, Donovan. I would have expected you to come up with some new material."

Donovan smirked. "It's still funny."

I could see Sherlock was getting annoyed. He opened his mouth to shoot back a response, but I brushed his hand with mine. He gritted his teeth and let the air out quickly through his nose. "Stop talking, Donovan," he said, in a tone I could only describe as exaspirated.

She cocked an eyebrow, but obliged.

Lestrade was next.

He pulled me off to the side while Sherlock crept around the scene. "So are you two, em..."

I eyed him. He didn't seem to be mocking me. He looked genuinely curious.

I let my unknowingly clenched fists jammed in my pockets relax. "Yeah," I replied softly, allowing my eyes to trail off to the side. My head jerked back to look at him, my brows furrowed. "So why'd they say those things? It's my blog. Why drag Sherlock into it?"

I knew the answer before Lestrade said anything. "You know those guys. They're always looking for things to mock 'im for. I didn't see 'em say the stuff they did, I was at my car at the time. One of the inspectors told me what happened."

I gave a sharp nod and cleared my throat. Awkward silence. "I'm going to, um, head back," I said.

Lestrade nodded. "Take it easy."

Back at the scene, I saw Sherlock standing idly. "Almost done?" I asked.

"Done," he said with an air of triumph. "Finished not long after you went and talked to Lestrade."

"Um, then, why are you still here? I would've thought that you'd have taken off."

"Almost did."

"What stopped you?"

"You."

I felt my ears redden. He smiled and held out a hand. His fingers felt soft. We began to walk to the taxi, but Sherlock called, "Close your mouth, Donovan. A gaping jaw just makes you look like a fish."

The last thing I heard was Lestrade snickering.

**Thank you again for staying with me through my first fanfic. This most certainly won't be my last. ;) Until next time, everyone! Keep reading and writing. :)**

**(^.^) GoggleBox**


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